Tag: Fiction

Why I Didn’t Read the Millennium Series

millenium

I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but I couldn’t even get past half of the book.

But the funny thing is that I hadn’t accepted it, until now. I tried giving it another try, again, and again. And again, and again I failed.

I just couldn’t get through it.

Perhaps it’s just me, I thought. But now, I’ve learnt to forgive myself; it’s the book. I just don’t like books like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I only tried it because of two reasons: One, my book-freak cousin recommended it. Every time she spoke about the book, her eyes would sparkle with dream-like awe. She had warned be about the dull start, but she also told me how awesome it would get after that.

I never got to the interesting part. I couldn’t tolerate it that long.

Second reason: The title. I do this a lot. I judge a book by the cover, but more so by the title. And ever so often, I’ve been wrong. But I still stick to my instincts.

It was an attractive title. A story about a girl with a dragon tattoo. I like dragons, tattoos, and girls who get tattoos. I drooled at the title.

For all the drooling I did, the book disappointed me. With my cousin’s word, I had expected too much of the book. Perhaps it was my fault to set unrealistic expectations. Still, the fact is, I don’t like topics that the book addresses.

Of course, I enjoyed Lisbeth Salander’s attitude and arrogance. Sure, I could relate to Blomkvist’s thirst for recognition, but I did not enjoy the plot moving all over the place.

I’m uncomfortable with simultaneous subplots and empty scenes. A lot of slow-moving incidents threw me off the main plot, and I couldn’t find my way back with the same enthusiasm as before.

And so, I stopped reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wanted to like the book. Just like so many others. People kept saying how great the book was, tying it with the author’s sinister death.

I couldn’t see it, though. I couldn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I tried, and I failed. And disappointed. I didn’t want to hate the book.

But shit happens.

Part Ways

“Let’s separate,” she said.

“Yes, let’s.” agreed her conjoined twin.

The Manuscript

manuscript

“Look on the bright side,” My friends advised me. The glass was half full. I still get to keep all that’s important to me.

I get my privacy, for starters. My phone balance wouldn’t disappear. My tee shirts will remain mine, and mine only, and my messy room would be just as I like it.

But I didn’t want the “bright side.” I got to keep my stuff, but my being felt empty. She had left me pining, and yearning for something stronger than the oxygen that puffed up my hollow insides.

I remained on my couch, in my track pants, reaching for a fifth beer, munching on the fourth burger.

It’s just a phase, people thought. I’d recover, they said, replenish, and then move on. Everyone did that.

But I remained on my couch, in my track pants, —

“Hey, why are you saying the same thing again?”

I sighed.

“It’s a narrative, honey,” I explained to my impatient wife who stared at my manuscript, scratching the side of her chin. “There are no rules.”

She gave me that look. The look she always gave me while she looked in through my eyes, into my soul before blurting out, “Oh, you writers!”

Winter’s Tale

winter's tale

We faced each other under the tree I’d like to call my second home. It was a chilly day in the midst of a beautiful winter. The sheen of snow over her head glistened in the weak November sun.

Everything around us appeared romantic. Except her eyes. She blinked through angry tears, staring at me as if I had committed a felony.

I hadn’t.

I had instead asked her to spend the rest of her life with me. And she replied with nothing more than a stream of tears rolling down her cheeks, now pale from the cold.

She walked away while I watched my hopes dangle from her coat pockets.

—

I got the call a week later. Summer hadn’t told me about her fatal illness. She left and eternal winter engulfed me.

Chasing Dreams

Her parents hadn’t bothered. Her classmates thought her a loser. And her teachers didn’t want to acknowledge “the weird girl” as their student.

She was weird and bespectacled. She’d have a pencil between her teeth and another behind her ear. She’d choose the notebook over the Notebook any day.

Twelve years ago, she ran away from school. To explore the world. To write.

She didn’t stop waver for one moment. And after all this time, or The Screeching Voice in My Head, came out two days ago. She hadn’t slept since.

James thrust the review magazine at her.

She opened to happiness.